My Philadelphia Recap: From Fable to Finish Line

I won’t bore reader(s) with a mile by mile breakdown. I won’t discuss the lack of porta potties or nickpick my every step.  I hate recaps like that. You’re not going to get a weather report or a grid of my Garmin times. You can read any Philadelphia Marathon recap for that. This was my marathon and the apex of a very long, very personal journey.

Let’s rewind to about six weeks ago when I was huffing and puffing my way through a solo 20 mile training run. It was not going well. I was achy, hungry, and tired. My legs and head were not cooperating. Either my legs would stop or my mind would stop telling them to go. My Camelback was annoying the crap out of me. Everything was annoying the crap out of me.

And then I got a stone in my damn shoe. It’s one of the cons to trail running. Red clay provides a softer surface and therefore easier recovery but comes with little stone terrorists that jump into your shoes and make every step way more painful than necessary. Good lord, I hated that stone. No matter how I shook my foot, it would not come out of my sneaker.

I started to think of the fable, the Princess and the Pea. If I remember correctly, the Prince was searching for a true princess but everyone he met was unfit. Let’s  have Wikipedia finish the tale:

The story tells of a prince who wants to marry a princess, but is having difficulty finding a suitable wife. Something is always wrong with those he meets, and he cannot be certain they are real princesses. One stormy night, a young woman drenched with rain seeks shelter in the prince's castle. She claims to be a princess, so the prince's mother decides to test their unexpected guest by placing a pea in the bed she is offered for the night, covered by 20 mattresses and 20 featherbeds. In the morning the guest tells her hosts that she endured a sleepless night, kept awake by something hard in the bed; which she is certain has bruised her. The prince rejoices. Only a real princess would have the sensitivity to feel a pea through such a quantity of bedding. The two are married, and the pea is placed in the Royal Museum.

I drew silly parallels between the stone in my shoe and the pea under the mattress. This occupied my mind for at least three miles. Perhaps I was meant to be Princess of Running by because of this stone in my shoe. My final thought was that if I could withstand the annoying pain of a stone in my shoe than I could indeed run a marathon.  So, maybe I was no princess or prince but a very determined runner with a goal. Also, I had to get home.

This faulty logic or wishful thinking became somewhat of a mantra as I headed towards the marathon. Some runners rely on mantras just as “just do it”, “pain is temporary, pride is forever” “you’re lapping everyone on the couch.” Me—I modify childhood fairy tales. Regardless of the method, the motivation and determination were there. I knew that if I could endure that stone in my damn shoe while running along the Delaware Canal, I had the mental toughness to endure the 26.2 miles of the Philadelphia Marathon. I did have doubts though because that is a pretty shaky mantra. But I think a significant amount of self doubt when contemplating running 26.2 miles in one day is probably just good common sense.

Fast forward to November 20, 2011. The day I ran my damn marathon.

very nervous at the start

I’m standing nervously  in my corral, just waiting for my turn to cross the start line. I point to it as we cross and say, “You’re my bitch. I’ll see you later.”And I did. Five hours and 10 minutes later, I ran under the finish line with tears streaming down my face. I did the whole thing. It wasn’t easy. But I never thought I couldn’t do it. After three years of running and 18 weeks of dedicated training, I knew I could. I knew there would be awesome parts and I knew there would be sucky parts. I knew there would be a wall and I would have to push through it. I knew that the crowds in Manayunk would be awesome and that those final 6 miles along Kelly Drive would be a knock-down-drag-out-gut-wretching-soul-searching-stretch of pain and drive that defines champions.

somewhere around mile 6. 

I can’t even say the marathon itself was hard. It wasn’t easy. It was challenging. It was overwhelming at times. Even the thrill of a personal distance record at mile 21 couldn’t negate the fact that I had already run 20 miles and still had 5 to go.

around mile 14

My marathon really started at mile 15. The first half was fun and served more as 13 miles of anticipation for the real deal. The second half. It was like the first three seasons of Lost, a lot of build up and questions which alluded to something way more sinister and crazy coming.

The wall came at mile 18. I pushed through it. My legs didn’t want to move anymore at mile 22. I made them. My heart was beating so hard and fast at mile 23 and 24 that I had to slow down to control it. But I did. My feet were on fire for the majority of the race but I ignored them. I was thirsty so I refilled my water bottle at the water stations and moved on. I was tired but I kept going. The only goal I had was to finish. 

Finally, I saw Boathouse Row which singled the end of this marathon! I was at or around mile 25.5 and only had a little more than a half mile to go. I was REALLY ACTUALLY SERIOUSLY  going to do this! The finish line didn’t appear as magically as I thought it would. Even though I had just run 26 miles, that .2 took forever. I followed the course and felt powered from the screaming and smiling faces. And just as that mythical finish line, the one I’ve been visualizing for 18 weeks, came into view, so did my parents, boyfriend, and friend along the gates. It was a dose of perspective. I mean, who needs finish lines when one is so blessed to have a group of people willing to battle traffic, each other, illnesses, and the Philadelphia Parking Authority to come watch me finish some journey they don’t necessarily get but want to celebrate.  

Hi Guys! I'm gonna go finish my marathon now!

There they were and there it was and there I went. To finish. To be a marathoner. To believe myself as a runner. To believe in myself.

There I go! Weeee!!! 

While I knew about the running part, the pain part, the hills and the course, I didn't really know what to expect at the end. A volunteer handed me a medal and a blanket. I grabbed a bottle of water. I didn't feel like a marathoner, yet. It felt real when, out of all the commotion and the bored announcer calling off generic mantras and names, I heard my mom's loud cry and saw everyone running towards me. The hugs and relief and pride and love made it real. 

My face is so ridiculous because I was crying.
That is what I look like when crying and showing off.

All I can say here is BAM! 

I have the medal, the t-shirt, the photos, and the waddle of a marathoner now. But I could have none of those things because I got huge hugs from the most important people to me at the end. I could run a hundred miles with pieces of glass in my shoe if it meant feeling that loved and special at the end. 

Lauren ran miles 20-25.5 with me along with most of my long training runs throughout. I could NOT have done this without her. 

I don't think I'll ever love another photo as much as I do this. NOTE THE MATCHING SHIRTS!

Love = wearing the same shirt as your girlfriend's parents.

This time next week....

This time next week I will be resting comfortably on my coach. This time next week I will have a glass of wine in my hand and a medal around my neck. This time next week, my body will be sore from head to toe. This time next week, I will never want to run again.  This time next week, despite the pain, I will have a huge smile on my face.

Because this time next week--I will be a marathoner.

I will be celebrating the end of a sixteen week journey and the crowning moment of an adventure that started three years ago. Hopefully. I don't want to jinx anything because anything can happen between now and the finish line. If everything goes well and the sixteen weeks of training pay off---by this time next week, I will be basking in the glory of having run a marathon.

I close my eyes on focus on the feel good parts of this adventure because I'm really nervous about the beginning and middle. My thoughts are consumed with anticipation, self doubt, performance anxiety, excitement, fear, and nerves. Did I train enough? What if I hit the proverbial wall too early and can't finish? I only ran two 20 milers and the second one was rough. I didn't do enough speed work. Am I eating well enough? What if I get hurt? What if I get injured between now and Sunday? What if.............. everything.

I'm allowing the question marks because I know they're going to be replaced with exclamation points soon and my doubt will be replaced with pride. As the questions grow in absurdity (what if I roll my ankle while wearing heels to work and I can't run?), the harder I think about next week. When this will all be over and I won't have to run anymore. I will have achieved a goal I set for myself and will  move forward through life with that power.

And as my favorite Righteous Babe (and this blog's namesake) sings:

"The further the horizon
You know the more it holds my gaze
And the foreground's out of focus
but you know I hope it's just a phase"


-ani difranco


The horizon is that finish line and this time next week....

THIS is a MARATHON.

It was 5 o'clock on a Thursday evening.  I stood up from my desk chair and was greeted with a loud crack from my lower back and a dull ache spread across my hips. I took a step forward and my calves burned. I moaned. 

"Why am I doing this?" I asked my office mate. I ask her this question everyday. And everyday she laughs at me. "I don't know! Because you're crazy." 

"Right. Good answer. And now I'm off to do it again." 

"How many miles tonight?" 

"I think eight. I'm going to shoot for six and try to push from there."

"How long will that take?"

"Forevvvvvvver!" I whine. 

Every fiber of my physical body wanted nothing more than to go home and take a nap. I wanted to nap, to cook dinner, and to watch The Sing Off. I did not want to go to the gym. But. Dammit. I'm training for a marathon. And so, I headed to the gym to face my old foe, the treadmill. Armed with my trusty tote bag, loaded with one sports bra, capris, tank, socks, sneakers, baggy t-shirt, headphones, I went towards the neon lights of LA Fitness. My training plan called for eight miles. That meant I had to eat a large lunch, chug 2 water bottles throughout the day, and wouldn't be getting home well past dinner time.

It was there on that stupid treadmill at the seventh mile, bored out of my mind, sore from my hip right down to my toes, the time is ticking closer and closer to eight o'clock that I realized THIS is the marathon. Sure, I'll gear up on November 20th and gather in corrals with thousands of others runners. I'll be excited, nervous, cold, scared, and anxious. My feet will cross that first timing mat and I'll be off. I'll run 13.1 miles and want to be done. I'll walk through the water stations. I'll hit a proverbial wall at mile 21 and find something in me to push further. I know my body is strong enough and my spirit is determined enough that I will cross that damn finish line. 

Because I've been doing this damn marathon for 3 years. The marathon is pushing through the exhaustion. The marathon is not giving into excuses. The marathon is setting a goal and working towards it. 

The marathon is running five miles to meet a friend on a brisk fall day and then hammering out 15 miles after that. The marathon is heading to the gym after a long day at work to get the miles in. It's leaving the parties early on weekends to be running by the time that most parties would be winding down. It's running 20 miles by yourself. It's running at night when the gym is closed for renovations because you're committed to the training plan (even if you're afraid of the dark). It's pounding out 16 miles on a treadmill because a Nor'easter is raging outside. It's coaching Girls on the Run, followed by running five miles. And following that with 45 minutes of intense cross training. The marathon is finding way to fit everything in. The marathon is being too tired to run and too determined not to. It is discovering deep wells of strength, stamina, anger, inspiration, motivation, and drive within yourself. And then actually using it. It's that incredible feeling of achievement earned from tackling one double digit run after another week after week. 

The start line of the marathon is not in front of the Philadelphia Art Museum. It was the first day I decided to try to run. A training plan calls for 16 weeks. The distance is 26.2 miles. The marathon is more than miles run. It's a compilation of weeks or years or even a lifetimes worth of work. The 26.2 miles will really be the easy part. 

Misery Loves Company for 20 Miles

My alarm went off at 6am on Saturday morning. I was not happy about this. I was not happy about leaving my snugly warm bed. I was not happy that my Phillies had lost the night before and were out of the playoffs. I had company in my misery. My stomach was unhappy about the beer I chose to drink and the greasy pizza and salty chips I chose to eat Friday night. It should have had had water and pasta. My legs were not happy with the 27 miles of running I had already forced them to do that week and the 20 miles I was asking of them that morning.

At least I had really pretty scenery for all 20 miles of this run.

Saturday morning was my first 20 mile training run for the Philadelphia Marathon. This would be the longest I had ever run (ever!). The 20 mile distance is a landmark for most training plans and a beginning runner will not exceed 20 miles until race day. This distance is as close to the infamous 26.2 as I will see until the actual marathon day.

There was an angel runner on my right shoulder chanting motivational mantras and reasons why I had to get out there. There was a sleepy Satan on my other shoulder spewing off possible other ways to get 20 miles in that weekend and other skeptical, fear-filled nonsense. I was too tired to listen to either of them and simply went through my typical morning routine on autopilot. Actually, I was afraid.  I was scared of the distance and the committment that it would bring. If I could get through this challenge, I would actually be training for a marathon. I would have to line up with thousands of other people on November 20, 2011 and set out to push my body for more than four hours and do so voluntarily. It's as close to the "it" as I will get. Sure, I've had sore legs and an upset stomach the morning of a race. But I've never run with or through fear.















My runner friend Lauren was meeting me at the five-mile mark (Washington's Crossing Park) and together we'd run five miles towards New Hope, and turn around. 5 miles to WC + 5 miles to NH + 5 miles back to WC+ 5 miles home = 20 miles. Those first five solo miles were horrible. I considered just asking Lauren to drive me home. My legs felt ok but my mind was not there. I used my anger at the Phillies to get me through a few miles. I spent time reorganizing everything in my weekend and thinking of excuses so that if I did bail out, I could still make up the mileage later.  I turned my music up loader, hoping to drown out the downer thoughts.

Bridges = walk breaks

Lauren and I are always able to push each other and work together when we run. Once I met up with her, everything would be fine. Turns out Lauren was less than thrilled that day too. We decided our misery and overall blah-ness would have to push us through.

I want to live there someday.

With my favorite dully disgruntled running buddy by my side, we set out for part 2 of this odyssey. By mile 8 (for me, 3 for her) the Eeyore-like cloud had lifted and we were feeling ok. Not great, not good but ok. We turned around at mile 10 and felt better. Not great, but good. I started to fall apart around mile 14. Lauren ran an extra mile around the park with me.  I was now at 15 miles and that fear was beginning to join the list of current feelings (tired, hungry, stinky, excited, fear).




On a long run a few weeks ago, we met an older guy on the towpath who must have sensed my distance running despair and asked what I'm training for. Actually, I think he heard Lauren and I talking about how far we needed to go and we were both wearing half marathon tech tees. My Camelback and Garmin watch may have also betrayed us as 'marathon runners.' He was an experienced marathoner who has to stick to the 5ks now because of a bad knee. He was really sweet and interested in our journey. As Lauren and I were saying good bye and I was prepping to conquer five.more.miles.solo, he walked by! He shouted to me, "Hey! Still training for that marathon?"
"Absolutely! I'm working on twenty today!"
"Good for you! You can do it!"
"Five more!"
His daughter or wife also smiled encouragingly as we passed. With that wonderful shot of motivation and inspiration, I was off.

Just five more miles.
Just four more miles.
Just three more miles. I was allowing myself walk breaks every half mile because I'd been running for close to four hours at this point. The furthest I had every gone at that point at 17 miles and I used every mile after that as a celebration. I would text Lauren and Scott at each mile. I had a little dance break at mile 18.

Just two more miles! I was two miles away from running 20 miles and had never run this far before!
Just one. more mile! I started to get really emotional. I could be believe that I was about to finish my longest run ever and that I almost given up so many times.

20 MILES! I did it! I cried. I could barely breath but I somehow managed to cry. I was so proud, happy and tired. And overwhelmed. And sore. I visualize the marathon finish line a lot as I run and I imagine how I'll feel and worry about the miles leading up to it. Saturday morning was a sneak preview of the emotional and physical exhiliration of the real thing. And I can not wait.

Righetous Runner's Recent Righteous Running Ruminations

I will write a race recap in a timely manner someday. Although, I don't run most races in a timely manner so my lapse in posting time is reflective of the experience itself. 

From 5Ks to marathon training runs, this season has been filled with running events. It's awesome. And tiring. And thrilling. And painful. And surprising. And surprisingly painful. 

Below is a quick breakdown of the running events I've done this season. 

Delran Smokin' Hot 5k  27:25:00 

Garden of Reflection 5k  28:00:00 

Philadelphia Rock-N-Roll Half Marathon  2:26:00 

Steeplechase 25K Distance Run 2:45:00

Philadelphia Marathon Training Runs: 14 miler/15 miler/17 miler

 

I've found a new friend in the 5K. I've run the distance several times before but generally find the amount of effort put forth for any running event not really worth the distance. By that, I mean, I wasn't a fan of paying $25 to run 3.1 miles unless it's for a charity. Or, as was the case with the Delran Fireman's Smokin' Hot 5K, was being put on by my new boss at work. I felt a lot of pressure to do well at this race because my bossy-boss was the race director and I wouldn't have put it past her to bring it back to the office in some form. 

If that race was included in my annual performance review--I would definitely get a raise! I would even be ranked second fastest female between ages 20-35 in the office. And by that, I mean I placed 2nd in my age group. I shattered my previous 5K PR almost two minutes. 

I was so pumped from my performance, I signed up for the Garden of Reflection 5K the following weekend. While I felt like I ran a lot harder and faster at this event, my time was 35 seconds slower. Both events were great and we went out for a really good breakfast afterward. 

When you're used to pushing your body and slogging on for more than 13 miles at a time, a finish line at mile 3.1 is amazing. There is no reason to conserve energy or hold back. No! You go balls-to-the-wall, full speed for a relatively short time.You will not pay for it later by running out of water or energy with seven miles left to run. With 5Ks, by the time the legs even realize what is happening, you're done! It's beautiful. And you get a t-shirt! You can go on with your day without having to stretch and recover for hours. Bam. 

Short, sprinting 5Ks are good for Saturdays. Soul-crushing distance runs are for Sundays. The defining principle of marathon training is essentially to run a little more each week. By doing so, a runner builds strength, endurance, and stamina. I guess that's true. But, mostly, the runner learns exactly how many muscles they have and for how much time those muscles can hurt. I've learned that I can run 17 miles in about 3.5 hours and then waddle around for about 24 hours afterward. 

I smile as I waddle and limp after those runs--and not just because those 16 muscles it apparently takes to smile are the only 16 muscles NOT used in running. This is surprisingly fun. Each week, I get to learn how far I can go. I'm surprised, proud, stinky, excited, and scared at the end of each training run. I usually don't feel any of those things throughout the week while I'm chained to a desk. I look forward to it! Even more surprising, they do get easier. I ran a 25K (15.5 miles) on Sunday and was so happy at the 13.1 mile mark because it meant I only had a 5K left. I'm used to being happy at mile 10 in a half. I was sad again when I realized that I would still have 10 miles to run during the marathon. Oy. 

Finish line at Garden of Reflection 5K. "We're done! Already?"

Life is Not Lived From the Couch

I have a very short attention span. I am hyperactive. I thrive in chaos but function best with structure and rules. I despise boredom. I once worked a part time job after my full time career because I was bored. I need stimuli. I need be social and engaged. I love lists. Without a million things to do, I will do nothing. Doing nothing makes me anxious. 


My un-diagnosed ADHD combines with a powerful thirst for life to form my current philosophy: Life is not lived from the couch. Our eyes were are meant to stare at screens all day. Our bodies are meant to move. Forward. Sideways. Backward. Up. Down. Around. Moving. Breathing. Sweating. In motion. I have legs for moving. I have a brain for learning and thinking. My thighs are not this large to cover more area on a cushion.  My lungs are meant to be filled with fresh air. I do not believe in television. I watch television. I laugh at the jokes. I respect entertainment as an art form (except for reality tv). I learn from news and documentaries and empathize with special features. TV entertains me, however, it does not define me or my day. 


I love sleeping. I'm really good at it. Sleep rejuvenates our bodies and souls. It allows us to dream and let our minds escape. But life is real and waiting. Sleep til you're rested. Live til you're exhausted. We were not given days to sleep away. There is always a reason to get up. I assault my alarm multiple times and do not 'wake up' until a full cup of coffee. I am not a morning person. But, I get up because I cannot make my dreams into reality if I'm still in bed. Life will not happen if I'm not participating. And to me, participating is not watching tv for hours or sleeping through the day.


There are things to do; miles to run, sweat to sweat, smiles to smile, skills to practice, conversations to have, laughs to laugh, ideas to discuss, lessons to learn, lives to live. Those things simply can not be done with your brain turned off while laugh tracks and written scripts dictate your experience. 


I realize television is a strong part of this American life. Some people can watch hours of television. Some people come home from work and watch television and are happy. I am not one of those people. I'm usually annoyed or angry after about two hours of prime time television (with the exception of Phillies baseball, unless Joe Buck or any other national media sportscaster is calling the game--then I'm annoyed again). 


Life is not lived from a couch. Turn off the tv. Go for a walk. Create something. Play a game. Shake a booty. Push your body out of it's comfort zone and be amazed at the results. But don't watch others do so from the magic plastic box in your living room. 

Righteous Runner Tribute to the Righteous Boyfriends/significant Others of Runners

It was a quiet Sunday evening. Scott and I were settling in on the couch for an evening of watching Lost episodes. I had run 15 miles that morning as part of my training for my marathon and was sore and tired. My feet were swollen and tender from three hours of pavement pounding but the worst was the pressure and pain underneath my toenails.This is called runner's toes and it is caused by damage to the nail bed either by the shoe or sock. It is  very common among runners.  As Scott was about to turn on season five, episode 3, I muster all my strength and roll to a standing position.

"Hold on. I've gotta go rip off this toenail," I say, hobbling towards the bathroom.
"Awww! Gross! Was that necessary!" Scott hollers. I turn to see him shaking his head and doing that finger biting thing. I'm back in five minutes and attempt to resume my cuddle spot, but not without a little teasing.

"Hey, look at this!"
"Think I can get a discount on a pedicure now since I only have nine toenails?"
"That little pig did not cry wee wee wee all the way home. It got hit by a bus."

For some reason, Scott is not amused. He's actually quite freaked out. Why? It's not ok for your girlfriend to rip toenails off and then laugh about it? It's not cute?

Poor Scott. He's been woken up to come pick me up from various spots all over Bucks County at the precise mile I've decided to be done running.  He's learned to come with a towel, flip flops, clean t-shirt, and cold bottle of water. He also keeps the windows down no matter what the weather. I'm pretty sure if his banged-up foot hadn't slowed him down, he would have hidden when my runny buddy Lauren and I returned from our triumphant 17 mile run Sunday morning.  I have no idea why he wouldn't hug me until I after a shower.

Scott, welcome to the world of having a runner girlfriend. For when you have a runner girlfriend, things are different. What runners think of as perfectly acceptable behaviors can come across as disgusting and frightening to those not in the know. It takes a good man to tolerate our demanding training schedules and some of the unflattering side effects of running. Marathon training requires a lot of dedication and commitment not just of the runner but of their significant other. But, the boyfriends of girl runners (or the girl friends of boy runners) know that those disgusting, stinky, sweaty moments when we are red and puffy, the hours of stretching, icing, whining, the small fortune in sports bras and race fees, the early morning wake ups, will all add up to one of our best moments---crossing those finish lines. There will be smiles  that can't be beat and a feeling of pride and satisfaction that will, I promise, make those quiet nights on the couch instead of a bar and bruised toe nails more than worth it.

So, lets raise our water bottles  and do a Shot block to the guys who stand idly on the finish line as we strive for PRs and paces

• who understand what a PR is and why it's important.
• who drive us to all over this green Earth at disgraceful hours of the morning.
• who will make as many stops at as many gas stations as needed en route to a race--again, without judgement.
• who wait while we run.
• who endure snooze buttons and multiple alarms throughout the weekdays.
• who do not judge when we order appetizers, main course and dessert at dinner and clear the plates in record time.
• who buy breakfast after a morning run.
• who hang our medal racks.
• who ensure our bibs are on straight.
• who take goofy photos (or, if you're my boyfriend, multiple photos of my butt while I'm not looking).
• who join us for a mile or two even if they hate running.
• who do not get why the Shot block joke was funny but pretend to laugh anyway.
• who are now running experts  from listening to their girlfriends go on and on and on about this sport.

Any  runners out there who (actually read this silly blog!) want to give a shout out to their significant other? Let 'em know you care by commenting on this never-read blog. It's almost as symbolic as letting them hold your gear bag. :-)